


A Friend Like Him

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [19]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Loss of Virginity, Loud Sex, M/M, ruining Thalmor robes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ondolemar aquires his groove for the first time, Dyce dresses for success and the Khajiit give them both a discount.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend Like Him

Dyce had read in a book that The Reach, and therefore its capital Markarth, was a comparatively warm place, and thus only a few weeks after he’d set foot in Skyrim he found himself in Understone Keep, on a cold, hard stone bench, being utterly ignored.

Markarth was warmer by Skyrim standards at least, but Dyce had seen someone _murdered_ before his very eyes, and he’d wisely fled up what seemed like eleven thousand flights of stairs at the first sign that someone might want him to do something about it. He was cold, slightly lost, and terminally broke, but he wasn’t stupid.

He flagged down a passing guard.

“Look, can you just tell the Jarl I’m not here to complain, I’m not asking a favour, I just want to do some work for him. He should want to see - oh, fine, walk on then.” He scowled and rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm. He was going to be here all morning.

He turned and watched the imperious Altmer in the robes walk past again, still flanked by his guards. He’d passed about three times already, and Dyce couldn’t quite work out what exactly his position was. Everyone seemed to ignore him for the most part, quite a feat given his attire.

He must have gotten sick of Dyce watching him every time he walked past, for when he was level with the Breton he turned and looked down a perfect aquiline nose with practiced disdain.

“Do you want something?”

“I want to see the Jarl,” Dyce said. “Are you waiting to see him too?”

“I seriously doubt our positions are remotely alike. The common rabble can wait their turn.”

Dyce leaned back and folded his arms, amused. Well la de da. “I do apologise, I mistook myself for someone important. You know how easy it is to do _that_.” He put on his most guileless expression and watched the Altmer try to work out if it was more dignified to ignore the oblique insult.

“Who are you?” Dyce asked, just as the Altmer had opened his mouth with a response. He shut it again, and replaced his irritated expression with a haughty one.

“I am Ondolemar, the Thalmor representative here in Markarth.”

“Who are the Thalmor?” Dyce asked. Instantly, he regretted it.

“The Thalmor are the leaders of the Aldmeri Dominion, the saviors of Mer. During the Oblivion Crisis...”

It was at this point that Dyce tuned him out. Politics. He should have known better than to ask a question like that in the Jarl’s court. Ondolemar was clearly proud of this Thalmor membership, for he went on and on, something about the Bosmer. And the Empire. And Dyce nodded and made appropriate noises.

He had to give the Thalmor credit for one thing. That was a stunning robe. Most robes he’d seen in Skyrim were shapeless and made of coarse fibers. Ondolemar’s fit him like a glove. And that trim looked like real gold. All those catches must take forever to do up in the morning. Dyce wondered how long it would take him to undo them. Not that he was considering suggesting this to the elf. Dyce preferred his partners to regard him as something a bit better than muck to be scraped off one’s shoe, no matter how elegantly attired they might be.

“Yes, well that’s all very interesting,” Dyce said in a tone of voice that suggested that subjecting him to any more ‘interesting’ Thalmor facts would end badly. Then he had a brainwave. “Do you have any work for me?” This Ondolemar clearly thought he was important at the very least, and Dyce wasn’t too picky about who he earned his coin from.

“Ah.” Ondolemar looked a bit taken aback, and the expression Dyce was beginning to think of as his Thalmor Face slipped. “I. You want to work for me?”

“Well not for free, obviously. Or even cheap. But I’m not picky.”

“Why yes, there is something.” Ondolemar nodded to himself, looking impressed, as if Dyce were a surprisingly well-trained dog who’d just executed a new trick. “You see, part of my duties are to enforce the ban on Talos worship in Skyrim. As you know-”

“Just tell me what you want me to do, and how much you’ll pay me to do it.”

“Steal an amulet from someone’s house. I’ll give you two hundred septims.”

Dyce got to his feet. “Consider it done.”

It was a job right up Dyce’s street. The mark was making a lot of noise at the inn, safely out of the way, and the lock on his door was not much of a challenge for the thief. Dyce helped himself to a stolen lunch from the man’s house, lifted any small, concealable valuables, and was trotting back to Understone Keep with the amulet in his pocket within a couple of hours.

“I’m looking for Ondolemar,” Dyce said to the guard.

The guard snorted, “That’s a first. The Thalmor’ll be having lunch. Take a left at the top and go up a further flight of steps.”

“Oh, yes, up more stairs. Silly me, how obvious.”

He found Ondolemar sitting at a table picking at a plate of food, still flanked by his guards. If it weren’t for the fact that they were eating, and that Dyce could see their faces under their helmets, he might have wondered if they were magically animated suits of armour. No one said anything.

Dyce knocked.

Ondolemar got to his feet and Dyce held out the amulet, “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, certainly. That was fast.”

“I aim to please,” Dyce said. “You got my money?”

“Yes. The Thalmor are most grateful-”

“Good. Well, thank you.” Dyce took the money pouch from Ondolemar’s hand and gave him the amulet.

“Feel free to have something to eat,” Ondolemar said, still looking slightly nonplussed by the whole thing.

“No thanks,” Dyce said cheerfully. “I already ate.” And that, as far as he was concerned, was the end of it.

~~~

The next time Dyce was in Markarth, he did get to see the Jarl, and the Jarl did give him some work. He saw Ondolemar again, still pacing with his guards in tow, still apparently ignored by everyone.

Dyce nodded a greeting and Ondolemar stopped his pacing to enquire after the Breton’s health. As long as he wasn’t talking about the Thalmor, Dyce saw no reason not to chat with him, although he found himself having trouble getting away. Ondolemar didn’t seem to have anything specific to say, he just never seemed to run out of words. Dyce eventually bid him farewell and just walked off.

The next time he met Ondolemar he was greeted with, “There are few pleasures in life as fine as your company.” This was immediately followed by an invitation for a drink.

Dyce quirked a smile. Someone had improved the Thalmor’s attitude. He looked the elf up and down appraisingly. That sort of invitation couldn’t be refused. “All right then. Let’s go.”

Ondolemar led Dyce back to the Thalmor living quarters. They sat down one end of a table and Ondolemar’s guards sat down the other end, in silence. Dyce wondered if he handed his weapons in they’d go away.

Ondolemar poured them some wine, which wouldn’t have been Dyce’s first choice but it was free and he wasn’t going to complain. Ondolemar thought for a little while, and then he said, “Have you heard the news from the Imperial City?”

“Nope.”

“Well, the Aldmeri Dominion has-”

Only then did Dyce realise he’d made a mistake. Ondolemar had that sneer on his face again, and he was talking about politics. Dyce pulled the bottle a bit closer. Ondolemar didn’t even seem to notice he wasn’t paying much attention.

Thalmor this. Thalmor that. Grand plans for the future of Skyrim. And on and on. Dyce kept drinking.

“Hey, hey. Hey. Stop talking.” Dyce had run out of wine.

Ondolemar looked at him. “What is it?”

“That line, about the pleasure of my company? It was good. Smooth even. But your small talk needs some work. So, I really should be going. So I’ll give you a snog if you want, but I am way too drunk to take you to bed right now. Specially with those guys watching.” He glanced at the guards.

Ondolemar stared at him, his eyes widening. “What?” he spluttered, his expression somewhere between genuine guilt and confected confusion.

Dyce raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Thalmor do not-” he choked. “Associate with humans. We have a higher calling. I certainly didn’t-”

“All right, shut up. I get it.” Dyce didn’t get it at all, but Ondolemar seemed just as confused as he was and he was still sober. “I shall see myself out.” Mustering what dignity he had, Dyce wandered out, muttering about repressed elves. When he glanced over his shoulder, Ondolemar’s guards were still staring silently at each other, and Ondolemar himself looked horrified and slightly heartbroken.

Dyce did his best to avoid the Altmer after that. Ondolemar always greeted him with what Dyce was sure was unfeigned pleasure, but once the initial joy of meeting him had passed, he clearly had no idea what to do with himself. Dyce had far, far more important things to worry about.

~~~  
“Are you serious? I’m not wearing that.”

“It’s very important that you blend in,” Delphine said. “You can’t possibly wear that.”

“I wasn’t planning on wearing my armour. I’m not quite the barbarian you seem to think I am. But I can’t wear that. It looks like a brown quilt someone made into a coat. Badly.”

“It’s very expensive. Surely you’ve seen how wealthy people dress in Skyrim.”

“You know I have seen an outfit like that before, and it looked good. On a female Jarl twice my age. What kind of cover story would make any sense with that?”

Delphine regarded Dyce with a bemused, exasperated expression. Outside, a cart was waiting at the stables to take Dyce to the embassy, and they didn’t have time to argue about what he was going to wear.

“Do you have something better then?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” he grinned. “Clothes stolen fresh this morning from the finest tailor in Solitude.” He ducked into the other room to change. When he walked back in, her eyes widened. “They’re a bit snug,” he said, tugging at his cuffs. “The downside of stealing clothes is that you can’t really try them on first.”

Delphine walked around him, looking him up and down. “You look less like a guest and more like entertainment. What sort of cover story goes with that?”

Dyce frowned, trying to work out how many buttons he should leave undone on his shirt. “Well, isn’t it obvious? I am a poor young man who somehow wrangled an invitation and, and my only ambition is to be the lapdog of someone wealthy and powerful and I’m there to look for a lap.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow, “Is that seriously your cover story?”

Dyce stepped up to her and grinned, “You think I’m not capable of attracting the attention of a powerful and attractive older woman?”

She shifted her jaw, “I don’t know _what_ you’re capable of, Dyce. Since you have your heart set on this, I can only wish you luck.” She frowned, “Be careful in there; this is serious.”

He winked, “See, I knew you cared.” He opened the door and shivered. “Maybe I’ll wear the quilt as a coat over the top. It looks like it’s going to snow again. No, I will not wear the hat. Don’t even ask.”

As he’d expected, Dyce got more than a few double-takes when he shed his coat at the Embassy party. He aimed for lecherous rather than charming when talking to the ambassador, and luckily Elenwen seemed to find him rather disconcerting, and she wasted no time in finding someone else to talk to.

Dyce drifted around, trying to avoid Maven’s eye and wandering hands, and helped himself to the buffet. He was surprised, even though he knew he should have expected it, when he ran into Ondolemar.

They stared at each other for a few moments, and Dyce tried to work out how to adjust his cover story so that he’d buy it without causing a fuss. Ondolemar was just staring. He spent a few seconds staring a Dyce’s face, making sure he was who he thought he was, and then his gaze started dropping.

And kept dropping.

Dyce opened his mouth to greet him and realised Ondolemar’s attention was nowhere near his eyes.

“All right then?” he asked softly.

Ondolemar snapped head up and licked his lips nervously. “Yeah.”

Elenwen drifted past and nodded at Ondolemar and it was like he’d been struck with a lightning bolt. He raised his head and managed to frown and sneer at the same time. "There is peace now, and that peace will continue for as long as it suits our needs. But make no mistake, this is not a peace forged out of necessity between rival nations of equal strength,” he said intensely. “It is more like the calm between storms, and the next storm, I think, will be deadlier than the last.”

“Okay,” Dyce said, somewhat startled. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.” He steered the Altmer into one of the darker corners. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Elenwen wasn’t within earshot and then asked, “What was that all about? It’s nice to see a friendly face at a party, but that face you were making was not friendly.”

“I’m sorry I, um.” He was looking at Dyce’s chest again.

“You’re not very good at small talk, are you?” Dyce smiled, “It’s kind of cute watching you stumble over yourself though. And despite the scary face I am happy to see you. I don’t have many friends in this room.”

“Oh.” Ondolemar managed to meet his eyes again. “I’m your friend. It’s always good to see you.”

“Especially the times you see more of me than others?” Dyce asked slyly. He drifted closer into Ondolemar’s personal space.

“I’m really not sure we should uh.” He seemed to have trouble talking and breathing at the same time.

“Oh come on, it’s a party. Why do you think they have these private little corners, hm? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your guards before. Shouldn’t you take advantage?” He let the question hang, and placed a hand on Ondolemar’s side, just above his hip. Those robes really did have a fine texture; beautifully smooth.

“The Thalmor-”

“I swear, if you mention the Thalmor one more time this evening I’m going to go and make out with Maven instead,” Dyce said. Ondolemar shut his mouth with a snap. Dyce smirked. “No more objections?”

Dyce snaked himself up against Ondolemar’s body, watching the Altmer shiver as his breath ghosted against his neck. He tilted his head back in invitation and Dyce accepted, pressing his lips and his teeth to the underside of Ondolemar’s jaw. The Thalmor whimpered, his hands fluttering slightly at his sides.

“You’re so tightly wound,” Dyce muttered. It was glorious. He slid his hands higher, sliding up the fitted robes. Dyce could tell when he found a nipple because Ondolemar’s breath hitched and he finally worked up the courage to put his hands on Dyce’s hips.

The near perfect lines of Ondolemar’s robes were getting pushed out of shape by his cock, outlined against his stomach by the unforgiving material. Dyce stepped right up against him and pressed his hip slowly but firmly against the bulge. Ondolemar shuddered and his head dropped forward and his long-fingered hands crept across Dyce’s arse.

Finally, Dyce thought he’d managed to prise the person inside away from that hard Thalmor coating. But that wasn’t, sadly, his reason for being here.

“We could pick this up another time,” he murmured against Ondolemar’s skin. “I have things I have to do.”

“Really?” Ondolemar panted.

“I could use your help. I need you to cause a distraction, get everyone’s attention.”

Ondolemar pulled back, frowning and trying to marshal his scattered wits. “This is very irregular. I trust that whatever you’re doing won’t compromise my position in any way?”

“Of course not. Compromising your position would rather spoil my plan to pick up where we left off later. I just want to play a joke.”

Ondolemar tugged and straightened his robes, “Hm. Very well. I’m putting my reputation on the line for you.”

“I know,” Dyce said. He stood up on his toes and whispered in Ondolemar’s ear, “I’m very, very grateful.”

Ondolemar nodded and Dyce drifted away, desperately curious to see what he’d actually do. He didn’t have to wait long, Ondolemar drifted among the crowd, drink in hand, for a few minutes and then his voice cut through the small talk.

“How dare you speak of the Thalmor in such a disgusting manner!” Heads turned, conversations dried up as everyone turned to see what the commotion was.

“What? I didn’t...I’d never - you’ve misunderstood. I’d never insult your, that is to say...”

“Your insults and provocations have gone far enough!” Ondolemar had his best sneer on, and Dyce grinned. He was really going for it. Dyce was almost disappointed that he couldn’t hang around and watch.

“Who’d have thought Ondolemar would be so much fun at parties?” he murmured, and then he was obliged to make himself scarce.

~~~  
Dyce leaned against the stone wall and waited, his arms folded across his chest. He heard footsteps approaching and then they stopped. Ondolemar, flanked by his guards, stared at him with unfeigned surprise for a few moments. He looked at his guards.

“Leave me,” he ordered. He stalked past Dyce and opened the door to the Thalmor quarters and after Dyce followed him in he shut it.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Ondolemar said. “Especially after what you did. Was that your idea of a joke?”

“No it wasn’t,” Dyce said. “Is torture yours?”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have you arrested,” Ondolemar said.

“For what? You don’t have the right to lock people up. I’m a thief. I’m a member of a guild. You think we were just going to sit by and let you kidnap our people and torture them? And for what? We haven’t done anything to you.”

“You cannot comprehend what has been done to us.”

They were silent for a while. Ondolemar crossed his arms and scowled.

“Are you going to get into trouble?” Dyce asked.

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my friend. And I don’t want you to be tortured either, you know.”

“I’m not going to-.” His shoulders dropped, “No, no one connected anything to me. It made Elenwen look bad.” A faint smile crossed his face.

“Good,” Dyce said. “You gave a pretty impressive performance.”

“I get a lot of practice at being outraged,” Ondolemar said.

“So are we okay? You forgive me for busting my friend out?” Dyce looked at him hopefully with wide eyes.

“Don’t cross us again,” Ondolemar said. In a softer tone he added, “I don’t want to see you in that dungeon.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid it.” He reached out and took Ondolemar’s hand. “I notice you’re getting better at getting rid of your guards.”

Ondolemar pulled his hand away and paced around the room, looking worried. “We shouldn’t do things like that. Like this.”

“Why not?” Dyce asked. “You seemed to be having a lovely time if I recall.”

“It’s not what’s expected of a Thalmor.”

“Yeah,” Dyce said. “Can’t have you enjoying your time on Mundus. You might decide rolling back the mortal world and regaining your godhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Ondolemar stared at him.

Dyce stared back. “I can read,” he pointed out. “Forget politics; this is about religion, isn’t it? Start with the hard one first; get rid of Talos, then all the other races of Men can follow. Am I wrong?”

“This is,” Ondolemar looked like he’d been slapped, “not relevant to you. Your lifespan-”

“You think you’ll live to see this? Do you _want_ to? Immortality’s not worth dying for. Especially if you’re just going to waste your time.” He stepped forward and prodded Ondolemar in the chest, “Somewhere in here, is an elf. I like him. He’s a lot of fun. But I don’t like the Thalmor.”

“We don’t expect to be liked.”

“Then you won't be disappointed when I tell you that I will not be a friend, or a lover, to someone who has a philosophical objection to my very existence. Goodbye, Ondolemar.”

Dyce shook his head and walked out. Ondolemar’s guards were standing on the other side of the door, and they watched him leave expressionlessly.

“Is this really necessary? Can’t we just call a truce now, without swapping anything?” Dyce found himself the center of attention as some of the most powerful people in Skyrim regarded him with a mixture of exasperation and cynicism. “Nevermind, forget I said anything.”

Dyce wished he was somewhere, anywhere else. A dragon’s mouth maybe. Or cleaning troll crap off his shoes. Or listening to Morthal’s bard. He wasn’t even sure why they wanted him here; he clearly had no idea what he was doing, but everyone keep looking at _him_ to make suggestions.

“What does the Dragonborn say?” Oh Gods not again.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Dyce mumbled.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Tullius thundered. “What use is Winterhold to us compared to Riften?”

“I take it back then. Let’s do something else.”

Dyce had hoped he’d have generated a bit of goodwill after he told Elenwen to get out. Her expression upon his introduction as the Dragonborn had almost been worth the price of admission. But while it had been the most popular decision by far, no one seemed inclined to cut him any slack for it.

The Greybeards were glaring at the Blades and the Stormcloaks were glaring at the Imperials and at that particular moment Dyce felt the entire world might be too stupid to be saved. There was only so much he could do.

Somehow, magically, an agreement was struck. Riften for Markarth and a brief truce. Dyce could only hope the truce would grow on people and they’d stop fighting, but he wasn’t holding his breath. It was only when both sides were making their final speeches that the full implications of the deal suddenly struck him.

“Right, good.” Dyce got to his feet. “Glad I could help. I’ve got lots of Dragonborn things to do before I return to Dragonsreach so I have to be going. Right now.”

Tullius and Ulfric both tried to corner him, and Esbern grabbed his arm, “Look, we know who the leader of the Greybeards-”

“Not now!” Something in his tone made the entire room look twice. Dyce turned and ran. He bounded down the steps of High Hrothgar and looked over all the horses tethered there before leaping on the one that seemed the most likely to carry him down the mountain fast without breaking a leg.

“Hey!” It must have belonged to Tullius’s group, because it was the Imperial guards who objected, while the Stormcloaks gathered there just laughed.

Dyce hunkered down for a long ride. Carefully he guided the horse down the mountain, but once he was on the roads, he dug his heels in. He was racing against the Imperial and Stormcloak messengers, who would also be riding hard that night to pass on the results of the peace talks.

Dyce ate in the saddle, chewing on bread and cheese from his pack, and as the moons rose he pulled his fur cloak closer around himself. Down past Whiterun, Dragonsreach looming over the town, and across the plains. Wolves snapped at the horse’s hooves, and the creature whinnied and plunged on faster in the dark without any encouragement from its rider.

A Khajiit from a caravan, camping for the night, called out to Dyce as he thundered past, but he didn’t slow.

Into the Reach, while were Forsworn fires burning bright on the hilltops. Dyce blinked water out of his eyes as he rode through brief, biting showers of rain.

Dawn was breaking when Dyce arrived at Markarth. His horse’s flanks were streaked with sweat and foam, but all was quiet. He’d beaten the news.

Dyce practically fell off the horse and stumbled up the steps. He groaned. So many steps. But he didn’t stop. The market was still deserted; only guards and the odd drunk were around at this hour.

Understone Keep was quiet.

Dyce was quiet too. He snuck into the Thalmor living quarters and drifted past the sleeping guards to Ondolemar’s bed. He dropped to his knees and put his hand over Ondolemar’s mouth.

“Shh. It’s me,” he whispered into a pointed ear. “Meet me outside.”

Ondolemar looked at him with green eyes still hazy with sleep.

“It’s important!”

Dyce paced up and down, and to his relief, Ondolemar soon emerged, adjusting his hood over his head.

“What’s this about?”

“I’m rescuing you,” Dyce said.

“What are you talking about? From what?”

Dyce took a deep breath, “The Stormcloaks will have this city by noon. Somehow I don’t think you’ll be allowed to stay, even in an advisory capacity.”

Ondolemar narrowed his eyes, “What’s going on?”

“A deal was struck, that’s all. Markarth for Riften. You have to leave. Now.”

“I can’t leave. This is my post. I will fight these Stormcloaks to my final breath. It is my duty as Thalmor-”

“For fuck’s sake! I rode all night to give you a chance to do something _else_. If you fight, you’ll die. And that will be it. And for what? The Stormcloaks aren’t invading; they’re taking possession of the city legally.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Look, you can be free. Let Ondolemar die here, defending whatever, and you come with me. Let me get you somewhere safe. Start over.”

“My family-”

“Will think you died honourably. If you can call your cause honourable.”

“I’ll spend my life living in fear that I’ll be found out.”

“How is that different from the way you live now?” Dyce said pointedly. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have much time to discuss this. You have to decide.”

Ondolemar paused, indecisive.

Dyce sighed, “Well, if you do decide to stay here. This can be a goodbye.” He hooked his fingers down the front of Ondolemar’s collar and crushed his lips briefly against the Altmer’s mouth. He stepped back and shrugged. He’d done his best.

“Wait!” Ondolemar looked terrified. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. Dyce could see his hands were shaking. He flinched and looked over Dyce’s shoulder.

Dyce only had to see the gleaming elven armour of Ondolemar’s guards out of the corner of his eye before his blades were singing as he pulled them from their scabbards. The first guard didn’t even have time to react as Dyce sliced his throat, and the second brought his blade down on empty air as Dyce ducked under the swing and slid a blade into his ribs under his arm. He staggered back and Dyce followed up, knocking his weapon away and finding his throat.

Ondolemar looked at his guards, bleeding out on the floor, and then at Dyce who was flicking the blood off his blades. Dyce raised his eyebrows inquiringly and Ondolemar swallowed and nodded.

Dyce swapped his exhausted horse for a new one at the Stables, Ondolemar clinging on behind him.

Dyce kept an eye out for Stormcloak troops, but there was not yet any sign of them by the time he and Ondolemar were on the road.

“Where are we going?” Ondolemar called, when Markarth was far behind them.

Dyce reigned in the horse, “To be honest, I hadn’t given it a lot of thought. I haven’t stopped moving since last night. Where do you want to go?”

Ondolemar looked startled by the question. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a choice before. Where are you going?”

“To catch a dragon,” Dyce said.

“Oh.”

He looked so lost. “We’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”

They travelled onwards, and eventually they caught up with the Khajiit caravan Dyce had passed during the night. Dyce looked thoughtful.

“You know, no one pays any attention to them and the trade routes stretch all the way across Tamriel.”

“Travel with the Khajiits?” Odolemar looked shocked.

“Well, if they’ll have you. It would be a nice change of pace, wouldn’t it? And lets face it, no one would look for you there.”

“I suppose. But it’s-”

“If you say ‘beneath me’ I’m going to give you a black eye.”

“It’s going to take a bit of getting used to.”

“Well, let’s see if they’ll take you first.”

The Khajiit paused and Dyce was pleased to see familiar furry faces. This was Ri’saad’s caravan. Dyce often did business with the Khajiit, and he was greeted politely.

“I was wondering,” Dyce said. “If you might do my friend and I here a favour.” He knew full well that favours from Khajiit caravans often came with a price tag attached, and this time was no different. Ondolemar stood stiffly while Ri’saad fingered the cloth on his hood and looked him up and down.

“Will he work?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dyce said, before the elf could reply. “He’ll work very hard. He needs to learn a trade. I just need you to help get him out of Skyrim; after that, well, it’s entirely up to you if he’s worth employing or not.”

After parting Ondolemar from his jewelled amulet, the Khajiit agreed to take him. Dyce introduced him to everyone, and no one asked any questions as to why a Thalmor agent might suddenly need a new set of clothes and a quiet exit from Skyrim.

Tired, and not ready to face Dragonsreach, Dyce slowed his horse to a walk and travelled with the Khajiit for the day. Ondolemar looked grateful that Dyce hadn’t just rode off, and he kept pace with a kind of resigned determination. Dyce was proud of him.

When they made camp, Ondolemar sought Dyce out as he sat beside the fire.

“Are you going to make camp here too?” he asked quietly.

“That was my plan.” Dyce looked at Ondolemar with amusement.

“But you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not a Thalmor anymore,” Ondolemar said, looking at the flames. “Stay with me?”

“I thought you were never gonna ask.”

The tent smelled of spice and dust and smoke and hair. It wasn’t one the Khajiits used often. It was only big enough for one bedroll, but neither Dyce nor Ondolemar minded. The elf crawled onto the bedroll and groaned.

“This is so comfortable,” he said. “I’ll never have to sleep on a Dwemmer stone bed again.”

Dyce chuckled and pulled the tent flaps closed against the cold. “See, things are looking up already.”

Dyce crawled over the top of Ondolemar and looked down at him. “Once this comes off,” he said, brushing a hand down the front of Ondolemar’s robes. “You don’t put it back on.” He sat astride Ondolemar’s hips and lifted one of his gloved hands to his mouth.

Ondolemar watched, barely breathing as Dyce took each finger between his teeth, tugging the glove loose one digit at a time. First one glove then the other was tossed aside and Ondolemar tangled his bare fingers in Dyce’s hair and the Breton dropped forward again to kiss him. Ondolemar lifted his head up to meet him, and Dyce brushed his hood off, and then started on the catches at his collar.

“What would you like?” Dyce murmured.

“Everything,” Ondolemar breathed. “This is my only chance. Everything.”

Dyce rocked his hips down against the elf’s lap as he pulled aside his collar, dipping his fingers into the hollows above his collarbone. Ondolemar seemed uncertain as to what to do with his hands, but every time Dyce moved, or touched him he seemed to flex and shiver with anticipation.

Dyce stroked his ears and Ondolemar squirmed and whimpered. “You really are so sensitive,” he murmured. He managed to wedge his hand in between Ondolemar’s chest and his robes and when his fingers grazed a nipple Ondolemar cried out.

“Wow.” Dyce had not expected that.

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease,” Ondolemar panted. Dyce obliged him by undoing more of the catches on his robe stopping only when he reached his belt and exposing pale golden skin dusted with fine hairs. Dyce tugged Ondolemar’s shoulders free and then sat back to admire his handiwork.

“You look marvellously debauched,” he told him.

Ondolemar propped himself up on his elbows. “Are you going to take yours off?” he asked.

“I suppose I should.” Dyce started shedding his armour and pawed around in his pack. “Hm. I’m out. Hold on for a minute.” He crawled away and stuck his head out of the tent flap. He returned grasping a small bottle and grinning. “I told them it was your first time and they gave me a discount.”

Ondolemar flushed a deep bronze and buried his face in his hands.

“They’re happy for you,” Dyce said. He pulled Ondolemar’s hands away from his face. “I’m happy for you too.”

Ondolemar relaxed, “So what do we do now?”

“You roll over and stick your arse in the air,” Dyce said.

“Should I finish taking this off?” he said, looking at his robe.

“Nah, give it a good send off.”

As it turned out, getting the fitted robe pushed up around Ondolemar’s hips was more work than Dyce had expected. After much wriggling and no small amount of laughter, Dyce got him where he wanted him, on his hands and knees and still wearing his robe only by the loosest of definitions.

Dyce settled back on the furs to give Ondolemar a thorough going over. He half expected the Altmer would change his mind, but when he finally worked an oiled finger inside Ondolemar groaned in appreciation. And then he shouted as Dyce curled his finger just right.

“You all right up there?” Dyce asked.

“Don’t stop, please. I can’t-” he gasped.

Couldn’t keep quiet, apparently. He’d go silent for a while, biting down on his hand or something and then he’d gasp like a diver coming up for air and cry out. When Dyce asked if he wanted more, he could only nod.

Dyce uncrossed his legs and got to his knees. Ondolemar had given him a first class performance and he was aching to join in, even if he’d have understood if Ondolemar didn’t want him to. But he did. He waited apparently breathless with anticipation as Dyce oiled himself up.

Mentally, Dyce apologised to the Khajiit, who weren’t likely to get any sleep for a while yet if Ondolemar’s vocal performance to date was any indication. And then he scraped his teeth across his lower lip as he firmly but slowly started to press himself inside. With anyone else Dyce would have stopped and apologised, but he was by now familiar with the way Ondolemar cried out and squirmed. Dyce had to put his hands on his hips quite firmly to hold him still enough to actually get them together.

All those years of being inhibited had robbed Ondolemar of the self-restraint to keep himself quiet. And Dyce didn’t mind a bit. He’d wanted to see the elf under the robes and he was delighted with what he found.

Because it was fun. Because Dyce loved urging him on, telling him how good he felt, how hot he was. And Ondolemar agreed. Loudly. Repeatedly. That refined, elegant voice twisted and coarsened with desire.

Dyce didn’t need to touch Ondolemar’s cock. Every time his hips swung forward it was pressed taunt against the Thalmor robes, and Dyce could tell by the change in pitch of Ondolemar’s voice that all he had to do was keep doing what he was doing. So he stopped, briefly, and Ondolemar whined in frustration and then he started again, but realistically Ondolemar had no way of holding himself back and Dyce was tired enough not to feel the need to try and teach him.

He’d teach himself, eventually.

And so Dyce fucked him, and Ondolemar came surprisingly quietly, apparently robbed of the use of his vocal cords as he finally ruined his Thalmor robes for good. Dyce lasted a bit longer, watching him shudder and return to Nirn and open his eyes and lick his lips and Dyce couldn’t resist pulling out and splattering the robes - and Ondolemar’s leg - with his own contribution.

Ondolemar barely seemed to notice when Dyce took off his belt and rolled him out of his uniform for good. He groaned and buried his face in his hands while Dyce crawled up beside him and arranged the furs over them.

“I’ll never be able to look them in the face. They could _hear_ me.”

“They’re Khajiit.” Dyce yawned. “If anything they’re going to take this as a good sign you’re not a rotten Thalmor who’s going to make their lives miserable.”

Ondolemar was silent for a while, and Dyce was drifting off when he spoke again.

“My first night as an ex-Thalmor,” he said. “And I’m in some musty Khajiit tent, with nothing between me and the dirt but a few furs, and with a member of the human races up my arse.”

Dyce didn’t say anything, he just listened.

“And I think it might have been the best night of my life,” he confessed. He rolled over and wrapped an arm around Dyce’s fur-clad shoulders. “Thank you. Thank you for talking to me. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for saving me.”

“Thank you for letting me save you,” Dyce said. “I’m glad I could save someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“They want me to save the world next.”

“From the dragons.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right. Just go to sleep.”


End file.
